


Reverie - the Amelioration of Adonis Burnett

by Grimeli



Category: Original Work
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Aftercare, Awkwardness, Bonding, Dystopia, Fantasy, In a way but not really, M/M, New tags added as they appear, Other, Panic Attacks, Physical Abuse, Short Chapters, Stockholm Syndrome, Trauma, psychological abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-22
Updated: 2018-03-22
Packaged: 2019-04-06 14:43:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 5,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14059194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grimeli/pseuds/Grimeli
Summary: All that Adonis has ever truly known is misery. Even his surroundings, a rotting spot in the middle of the Belladonna catacombs, possess an element of displeasure as if the crumbling labyrinth had absorbed every ounce of anguish. Of course, the majority of that misery emanates from the half-rotten advisor who calls the stone tunnels his home.So used to suffering in perfect isolation... How could Adonis cope with being treated like, dare I say, a normal human being? What started out as a simple trip to find some candles will soon become something far more, shall we say, complex.





	1. Chapter 1

White light scattered across the earth, refracted in glass panes and split into its own separate hues, brightening colours of whatever may lay beneath the sun, warming the bodies and hearts of those sat under the rays. Sun-mottled leaves swayed, picked up by the slightest of breezes. A paradise to any who reached it, but all things have their contrast, two opposites painted in black and white, without so much as a hint of ambiguity. And in this world of black and white, the kingdom of Atropa was one as dark as the night itself. Indeed, Atropa was a land of corruption and greed, swarming with near-sighted fools who would act only for their own benefit, abandoning their morals in doing so.

Deep in the heart of Atropa, where sunlight was practically a myth and the shade offered a shroud for all of the kingdom’s corruption, lay Castle Belladonna, a towering behemoth of ebony bricks that crumbled in disrepair, more fragments scattering the grounds with every passing day. Some said that Castle Belladonna reached deeper into the earth than the sky, with its catacombs stretching for an eternity in a labyrinth of mildew and limestone. Such a place inevitably spawned a rumour, a typical ghost story about the Belladonna Spectre, an apparition which would supposedly try to snatch away the servants who were given the unpleasant task of cleaning out the catacombs. Of course, no such ghost existed down there. Instead, the myth was spawned from something much more real, and much more human. Deep in the limestone maze, hidden behind a heavy door crafted from laburnum and sealed with rusting bolts, lived the dirty little secret of the Atropian royal family: the king’s so-called advisor.

With his pale, willowy face, shadowed by bags beneath his eyes that didn’t fade no matter how much he slept and the cadaver-like sinking of his cheeks, one could be forgiven for mistaking the so-called advisor for an apparition or a demon, something terrible dragged up from the underworld. Yet, it was nothing more than a mistaken identity. In truth the advisor was nil more than a human, and a neglected one at that, always toiling away to keep the Atropian King happy – a happy King would leave his advisor alone. It was very uncommon for the loyal little underling to be seen away from his spot in the catacombs, but it wasn’t unheard of for his pale visage to be spotted upstairs among the ‘normal’ people, sticking out like a dead man amongst the living with his ivory pallor and hair as black as an oil slick, stress-streaked with white. Any who had the misfortune of looking upon him would do so with unbridled disgust as if they were looking upon a sewer rat or some equally disgusting little creature. Such constant judgements were typically of the same nature, and since the advisor knew only what he was told, his naivety was slowly beginning to get the better of him until he believed every word.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An introduction to the incarnation of corruption that is King Oleander, topped off with some torment.

A soft murmur of vindictive laughter spread around the great hall at the heart of Castle Belladonna. King Oleander was holding one of his renowned parties; an entire evening where the rich would gather and mock those below them. With his greying skin and excessive stature, Oleander was more akin to a titan than a man. A titan who, given the chance, would raze every corner of his kingdom to the ground. He and his fellow noblemen would tease the maids, treat the servants like objects, and if they were feeling a particular cruelty on the evening of their visit they would even dare to invite a commoner or two, only to deny them access to the castle and laugh at the confusion of their victims. But on this occasion, the victim was much closer to home.  
“Hold for a moment,” Oleander demanded, commanding grim authority even in the midst of festivity, “there is something I would much like you to see.”  
The king rang a small bell, the sound resonating like a church toll, and it was soon answered with the rapid click-clack of solid heels against the floor, increasing in volume the closer they became but losing their co-ordination in the process until the sound closer resembled a fast-paced stagger, more and more unpredictable until the king’s so-called adored advisor came barrelling out of the door that lead to the catacombs. How he could hear the bell from so far away was a wonder, but such a quick response seemed to provide the king’s guests with entertainment as they graced the exhausted man with their attention all at once, leaving him even more breathless and uncomfortably overcrowded, tired eyes flickering their gaze back and forth between each of the people fawning over him.

 

Often did the advisor make his desire to be called by his name known, but that frequency was dwindling as his spirit became more and more shattered. In a time when he was younger, more daring, he would insist on being called Adonis. Of course, as months and years began to pass, Adonis felt that his own identity was slipping away, that he was nothing more than a title given to cover a lie, and very few people knew the truth. Adonis had been threatened into silence multiple times regarding the things that Oleander would do to him, ranging from revoking his meal privileges to preparing his death warrant. And yet every last threat was treated as a life or death situation – Oleander was one to be feared, and Adonis knew stubbornness wasn’t an option. Now, this was the case more than ever. Scathing eyes saw what Oleander wanted them to; one side of a broken man, and a monster masquerading as a benevolent king. Adonis' thought halted entirely, leaving him vulnerable and subservient like a pliable doll. Oleander stared down at his trembling side with satisfaction; he wouldn't want his puppet advisor any other way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a strange dream sequence coming up next, so if chapter 3 seems bizarre, that's why.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aforementioned dream sequence, a vague prediction of what is to come.

Dim lights illuminated a spacious hall in the easternmost sector of Castle Belladonna, high above the catacombs which Adonis had called home for the past few decades. For once brought up from the gloomy depths by his king’s command, it felt as if his sight had been snatched away – so used to the darkness, the shell of a man wilted in the light. Of course, he hadn’t been summoned for no reason. On the final eve of November, when the air’s biting chill was at its harshest, an annual ball was thrown to keep up the king’s kind façade, and without fail Adonis felt like an equal whenever he was ‘cordially invited’. 

Occasionally the room swirled before his eyes, a nameless partner guiding him through a brutal mockery of a waltz. Needlepoint fingers clung to his wrists as if to snap them in half beneath his waxy skin. Adonis’ feet barely brushed against the marble floor as he was tossed and twirled, but not once did he leave the vice-like grasp of his supposed partner – he felt the figure was more of a captor. He was nearly certain that the delicate gliding joint, caught still in a painful grasp, was splintering. In time the waltz’s pace rose, and that was when Adonis’ foot made contact with a firm mound, an impact with force that would’ve surely knocked him over if he wasn’t supported. Even after the stumble the pace didn’t return to normal, and Adonis’ feet continued to make contact with the solid mass on the floor, over and over until, with no warning, he fell limp in his partner’s arms.

Trapped as a prisoner in his own body, Adonis could only watch in muted horror as the room around him distorted. The floor felt as though it was made of hot wax, dripping and melting beneath his feet. The waltz had slowed from a blur to a crawl, but the two remaining partners stayed bound together. An odd sensation filled his body, like fangs that sank into Adonis’ flesh, but he couldn’t feel the pain at all. Instead, he felt prickling heat, followed by his consci0usness beginning to slip away. He had gone numb, chilling realisation his only sensation left. The advisor’s vision grew hazy, and for a brief moment he was sure he could see Oleander’s grimacing visage before it melted away, a disapproving glare the last thing Adonis saw before his sight was enveloped in shade.

Adonis’ distant mind had told him all he needed to know. Caught in a trance of catalepsy, staring at the candle before him as he came back into consciousness. He concluded from the molten wax dripping onto his hand that the candle had been the source of the prickling sensation, but he didn’t care about that. Adonis was far more interested in the identity of his faceless partner than a spot of hot wax.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know this was bizarre. That was sort of the point.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At long last, the wallflower himself emerges from his sepulchre.

A scent of mildew emanated from the Belladonna Catacombs, stagnant and damp from neglect in a manner reflecting that of their languid inhabitant. At the deepest reach, the very end of the disrepair, a splintering wooden door loomed almost entirely untouched. Only the handprints on the dented handle stood as a reminder that somebody called these tunnels their home. Behind the wooden barrier was a cramped little room, almost unbearably cold even to those who were used to it, the musty odour overwhelming. How anybody could live there was an utter mystery, albeit an easily solved one.

Adonis’ head dipped slightly towards his desk, his exhaustion clear as day. The flicker of the candle that provided some much-needed light had entranced him like a hex crafted from wax and wick. With a bony palm raised to his forehead, the supposed advisor let out a weighty sigh through his nose.   
“It’s nearly melted already,” he spoke in a rasp, curling his fingers against his palms upon realising that he was down to his last candle, and that he would have to risk making the journey through his catacombs and up to the dazzling gloom of the castle.

Since his arrival in Atropa all those years ago, the prospects of light and the outside world had become nothing more than a memory, and the joy he had felt in his home kingdom was but a myth. In his younger years Adonis had been a sharp-tongued man, and a doubtful child before even that. He remembered how his mother had always been there to brush away his doubts and anxieties, how she would scrub away saudade thoughts. He remembered how she had once told him that she heard such pretty things when he spoke to her; that his voice was coloured by magnolia. These memories acted as Adonis’ remaining shreds of happiness. Between a neglectful King and a life spent wasting away in the catacombs, Adonis believed happiness simply wasn’t meant for him. Instead, he told himself that he was destined for a life of misery, voicing his woe to the silhouettes of his room in a voice, once pure as magnolia, now dyed with crimson.

Adonis was forced from reverie by a loss of light, and he blinked to find the room drowned in shadow. Tired eyes found their focus, a hazy stare falling on the dimly glowing wick, mostly crumbled to ashes. Begrudgingly he rose from his chair, wincing at the sound of its splintering legs grinding across the floor, and padded over to the door with all the grace of a new-born deer. “All these years,” Adonis scolded himself in the most hushed of whispers, “all these years and you still can’t remember where to step.”   
Once Adonis’ hand met the chilled surface of the door handle, he turned it and put what little energy he had behind forcing the door open. Exhausted by such a simple task, he staggered out of his chamber and into the torchlight.


	5. Chapter 5

Aside from a few lit torches, fiery tongues licking at thin air to keep the shadows at bay, the Belladonna catacombs were a mystery of stone and shade that wound like tendrils of strangling ivy or the roots of a toxic plant, holding a grasp on the earth. Despite this, the catacombs were almost entirely untrodden, and for good reason; who would be down there? 

Adonis’ eyes readjusted to the newfound light as he ambled down each path. He was well aware of where he was meant to go, though that hadn’t always been the case. A few decades ago he had found himself in a deserted corner of the catacombs, and there he had stayed for nearly a fortnight. Of course, a few correctional strikes from King Oleander’s cane followed the blunder, and Adonis soon learned his way, fearing for his own safety if it ever happened again. The withering advisor was overjoyed to see the flight of stone steps that would allow him to glimpse at the only other way of life he knew. Even if it was only to fetch a candle this time, he knew that it was a step in the right direction, a little victory which lifted the deadweight of his spirits. Adonis couldn’t keep the beginnings of a smile off his face, no matter how much he tried to stifle it. Even when a coppery taste seeped drop by drop into his mouth, no doubt caused by incessant biting of his tongue in an attempt to mask the way delight had taken over his expression, he simply couldn’t manage to hide it. Adonis was absolutely beaming with glee, and he knew it. 

Occasionally he would catch a glance of himself in some surface or another. The distortions each reflection cast upon him, as ugly as they may have been, were a refreshing change in Adonis’ opinion. He was so used to looking in the tiny mirror that sat on his desk to gather dust, he had almost forgotten the childish glee of watching a translucent reflection warp like something seen in a carnival’s looking-glass. Soon enough he was caught examining himself in the mirror by someone he couldn’t recognise. A boy who had yet to reach maturity, middling in height and swathed head to toe in expensive fabrics, each garment dyed in different shades of the same gorgeous scarlet. Adonis could pick out a few distinctive features about this stranger, namely his almost disproportionately long legs and a face that seemed to know no humour. Adonis turned on his heels with a gasp once he saw the newcomer behind him reflected in the mirror, his eyes wide like he had just seen a spirit. How ironic. 

“What? What are you staring at?” the younger one asked, somehow looking even deeper in malcontent than before, and Adonis found himself unable to say a word. Almost as though he was trapped in a horrid nightmare, trying to scream but choking instead. His lungs had been filled with figmental smoke that rendered him speechless. “I’m talking to you,” the voice came again, bitter and piercing. Adonis cleared his throat, almost certain that he could see the vapour that silenced him, and found his voice once more.  
“A thousand pardons, sir; I was simply trying to find some candles. The time must’ve slipped away from me,” the advisor explained. To his credit, he kept his voice even as he continued to speak. “As for the staring, well, that would be quite the gruelling story to tell.”


	6. Chapter 6

Adonis wasn’t entirely sure how he ended up in this situation. All he had intended to do was fetch a candle or two in order to keep his subterranean study illuminated, yet despite his endeavours he failed to reach his goal. That eccentric, bitter boy dressed in red had snatched Adonis by the wrist and started to walk back to the towering doorway he had been looming in while he watched the ruin of a man, who was nothing but a raven-haired enigma.

The cardinal-clothed stranger, who Adonis believed to resemble an arachnid that he had found lurking on the back of his fractured mirror earlier that week, had made no attempts to get to know the man he had just forcibly guided into the parlour. Adonis’ heart sank; it had been two decades since he last spoke to someone who wasn’t Oleander or one of his servants, but clearly conversation was out of the question. Never one for making his opinion known, Adonis suffered through the uncomfortable silence. Soon his eyes started to wander, taking in every aspect of the boy’s visage from his perpetually furrowed brow to the pale, chapped lips that were drawn into a grimace. The advisor soon found himself beginning to look at other aspects of the parlour they had settled down in.

As his eyes wandered he saw countless things that he never knew existed. Even the tablecloth, which was a downplayed lilac colour, seemed to be the most fascinating thing he had ever laid eyes upon.

“What’s the matter with you? You’re acting like a Delphinian hermit,” the boy remarked, the accusatory bite of his words finally breaking the silence. Adonis didn’t say a word in response, enthralled by the swathe of lavender fabric in his hands. “Do you make a habit of keeping noblemen waiting?”

“A nobleman, you say?” replied Adonis at long last, shaking his head slightly to whisk away some of his murkier thoughts. _That would explain the gaudy clothing,_ he added, nothing more than an unspoken afterthought. Despite being much younger than Adonis, this boy seemed volatile – he likely wouldn’t hesitate to run the advisor through. “I should have guessed. You bear the same grimace that His Majesty did, and at such a young age… Such a shame to see your youth poisoned.” _Not to mention how you involve yourself in affairs that don’t concern such a young creature_ , the spite of his thoughts interjected again. As grateful as Adonis was that he had managed to retain his wit, he believed it to be a nuisance more regularly than he would like. “Have you a name, or am I expected to call you Sir?” He asked with reluctance, not particularly wanting to hear this currently nameless youth’s piercing voice again. “Convalle,” the younger of the two said simply, “but that’s _Duke_ Convalle to you, obviously.” Adonis gritted his teeth. He hadn’t even known this entitled brat for a day, and somehow he already despised him.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is where the abuse references lie. Be wary.

About half an hour into their conversation, Convalle had called for a pot of chrysanthemum tea to be brought to their spot in the parlour. He hadn’t shown any respect to the servant he ordered it from, an unfortunate young maid who had clearly learned to hold her tongue even when receiving orders from such an unpleasant creature as the supposed duke. Hardly out of childhood and already dubbing himself by a title which he had yet to inherit, Convalle’s overconfidence and arrogance were reminiscent of a young peacock, not yet free of its juvenile feathers but strutting with as much confidence as its adult kin.

Adonis’ impassive stare returned to the lilac tablecloth, and he began to play with it once more. Anything to distract himself from Convalle’s familiar grimace. Truly, the spiteful little devil looked like King Oleander in his youth. The advisor could clearly recall how often Oleander wore that expression of disgust as a child; it was the first face Adonis had ever seen him show. With some prompting, he could easily tell tales from his late childhood, about growing up with Oleander and about how grim his first few years in the catacombs had been. The tablecloth in his hands reminded him of a time when he had been allowed to wander the castle with relative freedom; before the novelty of having him around had worn off. Things had been different back then, but it all evoked the same wistful pang in his heart, a hundred memories hurting like a hundred needles whenever they were brought to the forefront of his mind. He could keenly remember being plucked away from his mother as a child. Kidnapped, most likely, and presented to a young Oleander. Apparently the prince had been so vile that none of the nobles his age could tolerate his presence, and to prevent an inevitable flurry of rage his servants had deemed it necessary to abduct a child to fill the role of a playmate. Adonis suited such a role perfectly, meek and too shy to argue when he was presented to the prince.

In his childish naivety he had believed that the brattish prince Oleander possessed a vile curse that stupefied any who defied him and made them compliant, but it was far more likely that Adonis had been sedated with whatever concoction of herbs the resident alchemist could find and brew into a suitable drug. With each dose of liquid mind-haze he was given he found it progressively harder to think for himself, and soon enough he relied on Oleander for permission to undertake the simplest tasks. Even eating required the young prince’s say-so, which Oleander seemed to find ceaseless humour in.  
“If there’s something you want then I expect you to beg me for it,” Oleander would always say. Even when he had grown tired of Adonis’ company, even after having him cast into the catacombs with the ease of tossing aside a mangled doll… Hearing his puppet beg and plead, be it for mercy or for a necessity, sent thrilled shivers over Oleander’s pallid skin time after time.

When Oleander had finally admitted that he had grown tired of his newest plaything, Adonis’ blood flowed cold. He didn’t know what would become of him, whether he would be executed or sent away to fend for himself. Perhaps he would be given the chance to go home. Oh, how he had relished the thought of seeing his mother’s face again. He spent night after night planning a reunion that never came to light. When he and his minimal belongings were dragged down to the mouth of the catacombs in the dead of night, he felt as though he was about to vomit. There was no time to clear the delirium from his head before the door behind him slammed shut, leaving him alone in a crumbling maze which, before that moment, he didn’t even know existed. Apparently Oleander had… other plans in store for him.

Oh, how keenly he could recall the trauma of those early months. He was well aware that Oleander enjoyed maiming him. The prince had made it known just how beautiful Adonis was with a prickling red handprint struck across his cheek, tears rolling over the welt. He showed grim adoration as bruises blossomed across his lapdog’s pale skin. Even after finding out that Adonis had been hurting himself, the stark contrast of a small million lacerations spanning the length of his arm, Oleander showered him with the sickest sort of love. A beautiful destruction, he called it, but honeyed words wouldn’t take away the reality of the advisor’s defilement. Just thinking about it, even acknowledging that the memories existed beyond the realm of the fictitious made his heart sink as it had on that grim night. The belittling, the beatings, days upon days of starvation because Oleander had supposedly forgotten to give him his daily slice of half-stale bread, it all piled upon itself until a cold pit formed in the bottom of his stomach. Adonis could feel himself trembling, he hadn’t felt this way in such a long time. He was practically overflowing with guilt, he had disobeyed Oleander and he was sure there would be consequences. He wasn’t entirely sure what he had done to disobey, but Gods above was he sorry for it. He wouldn’t be able to make it through another punishment. He couldn’t, really he couldn’t—  
“What is wrong with you?!”

Adonis’ head snapped up to see the source of the sudden noise. He had almost forgotten that Convalle was there, watching with mild irritation as the dark-haired man shuddered violently in his seat. What was most prominent to the repugnant young noble wasn’t the way Adonis’ body was wracked with silent and convulsive sobs, but instead the expression of sheer terror etched upon his ashen face. He stared directly at Convalle as if to look at something behind him, but it was easy to tell by the glassiness of the miserable advisor’s eyes that he wasn’t really looking at the young duke, and through the black pinpricks of his pupils passed a glimmer of the fragmented soul behind those eyes. For the first time since their meeting, Convalle showed a touch of apprehension as he extended his hand towards Adonis, who had since turned his head away in anticipation of a rough strike across his cheek. Perhaps, the younger considered, he wasn’t the best person for this task.


	10. Chapter 10

When Adonis roused himself from his state of fearful anticipation, he was all too aware that he was alone. His eyes were still closed but he didn’t have to open them to see what he already knew. Still he clutched the tablecloth in his hands, grasping with such a vice-like grip that the cloth’s plum-sewn seams had started to tear. If he focused, he could hear a muffled conversation occurring behind the closed parlour door. Convalle’s voice, judging by its whining pitch, though the other voice was one that Adonis hadn’t heard before, and in fact he had never heard anything like it. It was light, airy like the more gentle breezes of Atropa. The very definition of faraway, full of ethereality and the mist of a mind clear of troubles and woe. Adonis yearned for the chance to put a face to the beauty of such a voice. _Surely_ , he thought, emitting a fluttering sigh that caught in his throat, _such a voice’s owner has no desire to look upon vermin such as yourself._ And yet, he hoped with what little enthusiasm he could muster that his simple hopes could become a reality. The advisor wiped his reddened eyes clear of tears yet unshed. _You would benefit to quit that, lest you make an idiot of yourself_. The narrator of his inner monologue, as Adonis noticed, had ceased to be his own voice long ago.

Adonis’ awareness once again started to dwindle as he gazed at the door, willing it to open so he could look upon the faraway voice and allow himself to be enraptured by it once more. As he was starting to lose hope, and his head hung down so he stared wistfully at the spotless floor beneath his feet, the door was effortlessly opened. Convalle had returned, and to Adonis’ delight he wasn’t alone. While the advisor would usually be apprehensive about being approached by a stranger, even if he did look much friendlier than the spiteful duke, this time he felt… different. The raven-haired advisor was given but a glimpse of the faraway stranger before he was coaxed into an embrace, and his vision was taken over by faded cerise fabric. A glimpse, however, was all he needed; his imagination was already crafting portraits of an angel in his thoughts.  
“Narcissus, have you ever been told—”   
“That I’m too affectionate? That I don’t take my duties as prince seriously enough? Yes, as a matter of fact I have,” Narcissus retorted before his cousin could even consider finishing his sentence. As much as the young prince strived to stray from Oleander's influence, there were just some aspects of his father that would always remain.

He leaned back slightly when Adonis’ tense body relaxed in his arms, prompting him to ensure the advisor hadn’t been smothered. This gave the embracing pair an opportunity to get a proper look at one another. Adonis’ eyes were darkened by his dilated pupils, and a faint shade of pink was dusted across his blanched cheeks, giving the illusion of good health. As Adonis looked at Narcissus, a veritable angel among men, he felt the air around him become feverishly hot. The rosy colour of his blushing darkened to a flustered rouge that prompted him to bury his face in his hands. The sound of scuffling heels filled the air as Adonis attempted to compose himself.

The two noblemen cringed in equal dismay at the scrapes, their skin blooming with gooseflesh as though they had listened to something far more horrible. Perhaps fingertips dragging across glass, or the screech of nails raked down a chalk-board. It was at this point that Adonis’ fingers parted, and he was able to examine Narcissus, who was still grimacing in memory of the scuffling noise. He stood at a much taller stature than Convalle, and possessed twice the young Duke’s charm. An unkempt mess of white hair fell to the nape of his pale neck, curled in some spots and entirely straight in others. As his expression returned to a state of neutrality, a hazy, never-there gaze, Adonis lowered his hands back to the table. Redness was still smudged across his cheeks, an unappealing rash on his waxy skin that, somehow, made him look even more pestilent than before.

“You… look like Hell,” Convalle chimed as he pointed one of his spidery fingers at the rosy mottling. A chuckle of all mockery and no mirth passed his lips, making Adonis cringe away from the throaty sound. Of course, an almost uncharacteristically stern glare coupled with a light swat from Narcissus was cause enough for the vile aristocrat-to-be to silence himself.  
“You can leave us now, Convalle. Cases like this require tact, not whatever approach you’d take. It’s a wonder you haven’t driven your father’s county into the ground yet,” the ivory prince said with a soft, excusing wave of his hand that elicited a string of mumbled insults from the frustrated duke as he left, slamming the door behind him with startling force. Despite the fact that Adonis was sat perfectly still, smiling fondly at Narcissus as though marvelling at him, the prince still felt very much alone.


End file.
